


When it Rains

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst/Comfort, Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Comfort, Dick Grayson-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Protective Bat Bros, Se.N, bat dad, dad!bats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: Jason's return to 'life' (and the Wayne family) is the hot topic of the minute in Gotham. Every reporter wants an interview. Jason's siblings decide to do an interview together with him, in which Dick gets asked a rather personal question:“What about yourself, Richard?” asks the reporter, widening her own insincere smile to match as she turns her torso half an inch towards him. “As the eldest I am sure you are simply overjoyed to have your brother back but, might I ask: why is it, do you think, that you are the only one of Mister Wayne's children that he hasn't formally adopted?”
Relationships: Dick Grayson & BatFamily, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone
Comments: 178
Kudos: 2107
Collections: Bat Hugs, Dick & Bruce, Dick & Ensemble, Good Things Come In Small Packages, Outsider POV and Social Media Sagas, everybody loves dick





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yup. For the purposes of this fic, Dick was never formally adopted.

The sweltering heat of the blinding spotlight is suffocating. The scorching waves feel as though they are searing off his skin, roasting him alive. Attempting to see past the light is like staring into an infinite void of darkness, swallowing all traces of light up like a black-hole, but Dick sits unflinchingly through it and ensures that the urbane smile plastered on his face never wavers, even when a single droplet of sweat runs down the length of his spine. On the arm of the chair, his hands do not even twitch. Dick maintains the intentionally relaxed exterior.

The inside of the interview room is utterly silent, though Dick knows he sits under the presently invisible gazes of an indeterminate number camera men, producers and executives.

Though Dick has done interviews like this for most of his life, he can't help but feel a little as though he is back at the circus, a monkey bound in a cage dictated by social expectation. It feels extraordinarily strange to be sitting on stage surrounded by _all_ his siblings―including a newly “resurrected” Jason Todd Wayne―for a live interview.

The last few months had seen leaps and bounds with regards to Jason's relationship with Bruce. It had taken a lot of negotiation, a few arguments and some degree of neglect toward the rest of his family, but Jason and Bruce's conversations had gone from civil but terse, to Bruce one day calling out, “Jaylad!” by accident, the moniker slipping off his tongue when Jason had burned himself whilst boiling water for Alfred.

It had all led to Jason giving in to Bruce's unrelenting attempts to make him part of the family again. Dick couldn't have been happier for them, but the media frenzy that the 'lost son of Bruce Wayne' was in fact alive had somewhat kicked the joy out of it. Every reporter and their dog had been trying to contact any member of the Wayne family for an interview, at least until Alfred had unplugged the landline.

Bruce and Jason had already done a few interviews together, so Jason was particularly polished with his cover story and fictitious, upper-class manners, but for the rest of the Wayne children this would be their first public interview with Jason. For Dick, this was his first interview at all in a very long while.

The sharply dressed woman interviewing them has already been at it fifteen minutes, each serious question peppered with more scrupulous curiosity than the last, looking for cracks within their familial front that will make headlines for the gossip rags for the next month. Dick couldn't have been more proud of his siblings for putting up such a united face, especially since it seemed as though their interviewer was becoming more frustrated with every answer.

They only needed to hold out two more minutes or so and then they would be in the clear.

“For you, Damian,” the woman is saying, crossing her ankles, left over right, pen and pad in her hand though she has no notes for reference on it. “How does it feel having another older brother, one you've never met at that?”

Dick waits for the haughty snort, the arrogant and irritated sigh, but Damian is treating this woman like he might an opponent and he would never willingly show a weakness to his opponent.

“Prior to coming to live with my father I was an only child. Learning and growing with my siblings is something I will forever treasure.”

It couldn't have sounded more forced to Dick's ears if someone was squeezing Damian through a tube whilst he spoke, but the woman merely huffs, displeased, before choosing her new target. Part of him wants to turn around and give his littlest brother a high-five, but in lieu of that he merely allows his smile to widen fractionally. Unfortunately, this sets him up to be chosen as the new sacrifice.

“What about yourself, Richard?” asks the reporter, widening her own insincere smile to match as she turns her torso half an inch towards him. “As the eldest I am sure you are simply overjoyed to have your brother back but, might I ask: why is it, do you think, that you are the only one of Mister Wayne's children that he hasn't formally adopted?”

The smile on his face freezes, sticking solidly like a sweaty hand to a frozen rail in the middle of winter. The sounds around him completely cease, though Dick knows this small fact won't be something picked up by the cameras. No one is breathing except for the woman, waiting with an expectant stare and a head tipped politely and slightly to one side.

The truth is that after Jason died Bruce never brought up adoption with him. Dick was an adult by then anyway and Bruce was too traumatised. Until Bruce formally took Tim in, Dick never thought he would adopt again. Then came Cass and then Damian didn't need to be adopted, he was Bruce's biological son, after all.

Dick had always wondered, of course, but he never allowed himself to ask the _why_ question. When things were good, Dick never wanted to bring up the questions to which he dreaded hearing the answer. Things had been good for so long that Dick had simply swept all such tainted thoughts and feelings under the rug. He had to enjoy things with Bruce now, because who knew how long it would last?

The slightly awkward laugh that leaves his lips does so without his brain's consent, words following suit. They're meant to sound like a joke, but he doesn't know if they come out that way or not because his throat feels too tight and his jaw locked.

“Honestly, I couldn't say, you would have to ask Bruce that one yourself,” he chuckles, tone too constricted and rough, like he's been swallowing sand. “But I will say that society has changed since Bruce first took me in. Laws have changed too. It was very unusual to adopt foster children back then, now it's almost commonplace.”

The silence rings a little too long and Dick starts to internally panic, wondering where he mis-stepped, thinking over every word, but then, “And unfortunately, that's all the time we have for today. We at the studio would like to thank the Wayne family for graciously granting us this exclusive interview and we hope you'll tune in same time tomorrow. Thank you and goodnight!”

The lights go up and Dick breathes a sigh of relief as the sounds of the studio come back to life. Smiling and thanking no god in particular that it's over, Dick turns to his siblings only to be met with a wall of furious faces. He blinks twice, just to be sure he's not hallucinating, and then his smile starts to slip.

“Uh, is everything alright?” he asks when no one immediately says anything.

Jason glares back at him. Then, in a voice as brittle as a dry twig, “Bruce never adopted you?”

Dick's gaze flicks between each of his siblings' equally angry expressions before replying, “No. No, but that is… you already knew that, didn't you?”

“No!” Damian explodes quietly, keeping his ire between the five of them so as not to let anyone else hear. “Is it not obvious that none of us knew that, Richard?!”

“I always thought he adopted you around the same time he did me,” Tim adds, seething, looking like he's contemplating clocking Bruce right in the jaw, Cass nodding along and looking just as vengeful.

“It's not a big deal,” Dick tries to explain, forcing out the lie as quickly as he can. “It just never came up and I'm sure Bruce just couldn't find either a reason or the time to ask. It's not important, I know I'm still a part of this family.”

“Of course it's important,” Damian says, expression turning murderous. “Why are you being so casual about this?”

“Because it doesn't matter,” Dick bites back, injecting just the slightest bit of heat into his tone. It's apparently enough to pull Damian up and even Jason looks surprised by the amount of venom there. “Look,” he sighs, already feeling contrite as he runs a hand through his gel-encrusted locks, beginning anew. “Can we drop this? I really don't know why this is important to all of you, but adopting you and not adopting me was Bruce's choice, consciously made or not. I don't know why he never adopted me. Truly, I don't, but he didn't so can we please let this go?”

Tim is the first to drop his gaze and Jason is the last, but no one brings it up again after that.

Alfred picks them up and Dick curls up in the back of the van and tries to fall asleep on the ride home, feeling uncomfortable and groggy right up until they pull into the garage and pile out one by one.

Bruce is in the kitchen when Dick walks in, going for a glass in the cupboard above the sink and then filling it with cool tap water from the facet. The rest of his siblings disperse to their favourite spots in the manor without a word spoken to him. Dick probably owes them an apology for snapping, but he'll get to that after he stops feeling strangely nauseous.

“Oh, you're back,” Bruce says with that same uncharacteristic glow he's had ever since Jason decided to take up the family name _Wayne_ again, pulling his head out of the pantry in what is likely a quest for the unhealthy snacks Tim keeps in the basket on the top shelf, out of Alfred's reach. “How was the interview?”

It's clear he did not bother to watch it, even though it was live. Dick thinks that maybe it's a blessing.

“Fine,” he says, allowing exhaustion to seep into his words as he sags against the bench, subsequently taking a long drink from the glass. “Nothing unusual.”

Bruce pulls himself more fully out of the cupboard and hands Dick a muesli bar from the stash of snacks in his arms. Dick just sets it on the cupboard without fanfare, still feeling too sick to stomach much.

“Rigorous, huh?” Bruce asks, already sympathetic.

Dick closes his eyes and lets out a low hum as a way of answer. An arm curls around his shoulders, a warm body pressing up against his side.

“You look pale,” Bruce states. Dick's sure it's not _meant_ to sound like an accusation, but he's still feeling flayed by the interview and Bruce's attempts at comfort have never really been excellently executed. “Are you feeling alright?”

Dick shakes his head before opening his eyes and setting the glass down on the cupboard.

“Feeling a little queasy,” he replies honestly, shifting to put a little distance between Bruce and himself. He can't deal with the man trying to parent him right now, not after… not after that interview. “Think I'll go for a little lie down.”

“Alright,” Bruce calls after him as he disappears into the dinning room, sounding just the tiniest bit concerned. “I'll come up and check on you in a little while, okay?”

Dick says nothing in return, just sends a single wave of acknowledgement back before disappearing out of sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing decided to take on a life of its own and is taking me in completely new and unplanned directions and going off script scares me, but I feel like Dick (and you) deserve a better story than the one I was going to tell so I think this might now come in at four chapters, but we'll see???

Jason is mad at him. No, actually, the whole family is mad at him, even Alfred―though Bruce isn't sure why. But over the past few days it's been Jason who's been the most overt about it. Or, perhaps he just notices Jason's ire more than his other children because he's so attuned to it after all the effort he's put in to repairing their relationship recently.

They've come so far. Far enough that, right now, Batman and Red Hood are staking out a warehouse by the docks where a drugs bust is set to go down. Bruce is terrified to go back on the ground he's already earned with Jason, already feeling the fear of slipping. Knowing that there's distance between him and any of his children always leaves him feeling completely useless, especially with his tendency to shove his foot in his mouth and then round it all out by kicking himself in the teeth.

So far the night has been uneventful and silent. The two of them have not been speaking, which over recent months has become unusual in itself. It is still new to Bruce to be kept in the loop regarding Jason's life, but he is grateful for it, which is why the silence scares him.

Yet, he cannot fix the problem unless he knows what it is.

“Hood,” he grunts, deep and short, but maintaining a gentle edge so as not to unintentionally provoke Jason into an argument, which is sometimes all too easy to do given how brusquely their personalities can clash.

“What?” Jason answers, not turning to face him, keeping his sights on the lifeless warehouse. It's not angry or harsh or anything, but.

“You're mad at me.” A statement, not a question, until he adds more softly, “why?”

The helmet muffles the subtleties of tone, but at least Jason answers truthfully.

“Yeah, I am,” he returns, sounding slightly annoyed if Bruce hears him correctly. “Only took you a week to figure it out.”

A week, has Jason really been mad at him for that long? What about the rest of his family? Bruce wracks his brain, searching for something he could have possibly done a week ago and comes up empty handed―but now that he thinks about it, Damian has been particularly stand-offish as of late and Cass has hidden in the rafters 1.2x more frequently in the last week.

“Why?” he asks again, when Jason desists with being forthcoming. “What did I do?”

Red Hood turns to face him for the briefest of moments, maybe reading Bruce's face behind the cowl. Whatever he sees, there's a slight drop to his shoulders when he replies.

“It's not what you did, old man,” he sighs, sounding weary as he turns away again. “It's what you _didn't_ do.”

Bruce isn't sure he understands.

“I'm not following you,” he says, shaking his head. “Care to elaborate?”

Jason hesitates for a moment, then, “Did you see the last interview I did?”

Bruce blinks back at him, wondering how that could possibly be relevant. “No.”

There's a taut silence that goes on for exactly long enough for Bruce to think that maybe Jason is pulling some kind of pained expression under the helmet, but he can't tell. He misses when his boy used to wear domino masks―it was so much easier to understand vocal quality and facial expressions when he could actually see them. _Thank god Dick never grew out of that faze at least._

Red Hood rubs the back of his neck with one gloved hand and shakes his head, which is standard Jason-ese for _'dang_ _n_ _it old man,_ _you're a moron'_ or, alternatively, _'you fudged up_ _for real_ _this time ya_ _big_ _goof'_ and in Bruce's books these two things are essentially the same.

“I think,” Jason begins slowly, dropping his hand and moving to sit on the old A/C unit planted on the roof. “I think things might be a little easier to… to understand, at least, if you watch that.”

Bruce takes a step closer without thinking, cape faintly rustling in the breeze.

“Did something happen?” he asks, tensing. He's still not sure how whatever it is he _hasn't_ done and this particular interview are connected, but he's nothing if not a methodical detective and he'll review the current clues Jason has dropped for him until he passes out tomorrow morning if need be.

Red Hood shakes his head, but when he speaks, the sound comes out oddly constricted, like there's a lump in his throat. “Nothing public, at least.”

That doesn't unknot the tight ball of worry forming in his chest.

“That part went smoothly,” he adds, almost as an undertone, but there's still bitterness there. “We were the picture perfect Waynes.”

Bruce is beginning to think someone must have said something to one of his boys, but even that doesn't fit the puzzle like the piece he's looking for―because that would have nothing to do with _him_ and it's _Bruce_ that his children seem annoyed with.

He chooses not to probe Jason for any more intel. Bruce gets the bizarre feeling he's pushing it already anyway, but the drug–money exchange never happens that night and the evening ends uneventfully, but with a significant amount of pent up energy. Jason goes off on his own, back to his apartment presumably, and Bruce doesn't try and convince him to stay the night. If he did he'd probably earn a snarky remark for his troubles and Jason would take any excuse to resent him for the remainder of the week. They might be on more solid ground _now_ , but Bruce can't say if it will last―even if he is putting in one-hundred-and-ten percent of his best efforts.

Still, he has a clue.

After Jason leaves for the night, Bruce settles himself in front of the Batcomputer and removes his gloves, tugging at them and tossing the to the side of the desk before pulling back the cowl. The Batsuit stays on, mostly because, for some reason, this feels like a Batman case and not something Bruce should be treating lightly.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, just about ready to pull up YouTube and locate the broadcaster's channel―where the interview will undoubtedly already be up for public consumption―when a voice behind him stops his index finger from going down on the well-loved keys.

“Oh?” says a familiar voice through the remnants of a yawn. “You're back.”

Bruce swivels around in the office chair. “Tim,” he returns, looking over the boy from head to toe, taking note of the heavy bags under his eyes and the exhaustion in the lines on his face. “What are you doing still up.”

The oversized sweater, one thinks might actually belong to Dick, slides down his shoulder a little as he shrugs.

“Couldn't sleep,” he answers, walking over. His bare feet slap softly on the cave floor. “What are you working on?”

Bruce pushes the keyboard away from himself.

“Nothing,” he replies, keeping his voice deliberately even, unhurried. The source of his children's displeasure with him will have to wait. “Because nothing that is more important than making sure you get a solid night's sleep. You should not be down here, Timothy Jackson.”

Tim pouts and whines back his name.

Bruce thinks he's probably dropped the ball a little with his other children over the last month. His desperate need to have Jason and himself on speaking terms has somewhat consumed all the spare time he used to have for his other kids, but now that things are steady between them again, that can be rectified. Tim, Damian, Cass and Dick need him too. He'll see to it that he checks in with each of them over the next week. Maybe it will even give him an opening to discover the source of the general air of irritation with him.

Bruce grips Tim by the shoulders and spins him right back around, marching straight back toward the stairs.

“Go to the kitchen,” he orders. “I'll be up shortly.”

Tim turns his head and eyes him narrowly, suspicious.

“What are you gonna do in the kitchen?” he asks, and it sounds kind of nervous; Bruce tries not to take offence.

“Make you a hot chocolate,” he replies, swiftly dropping a kiss to the crown of the boy's head and urging him up the first step. “With enough milk in it, it should make you sleepy.”

Tim blinks back at him.

“B,” he says a moment later, looking both confused and wary. “You know the last time you made us hot chocolates you exploded the microwave?”

“Did I?”

He frowns. There is some vague recollection of an exploding microwave somewhere in his memory. Something about metal and microwaves not mixing…?

Tim snorts and shakes his head.

“ _I'll_ make the hot chocolates,” he says with a roll of his eyes. There's a lightness in his tone that Bruce hasn't heard all week. He wonders if whatever it is that Jason said he _didn't_ do has something to do with its sudden disappearance and subsequent slow return. “At least I know how to do that much without blowing up the kitchen.”

“Hn.”

Tim disappears up the steps and Bruce goes about stripping off the Batsuit. He only glances back at the batcomputer once, ignoring the itch in the back of his brain that Bruce knows is the unsatisfied detective in him.

Whatever. It can wait. Bruce's main priority right now is helping Tim make hot chocolates and then being sure to put the boy to bed. Discovering the source of general vexation toward him will have to wait until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Magical Land, Found Here](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely going with a total of 4 chapters.

It is quiet in the kitchen. Which, Bruce supposes is not unusual with Tim. The boy has always been the quiet type. It is his actions that one has to look out for, because when Tim says he is going to do something, it will take something enormous to stand in his way. Even then, sometimes, Tim will find his way over, around or through a problem. Silence is where Tim goes to solve his problems, much like Bruce.

Right now though the quiet feels like more than that.

Very briefly, Bruce's conversation on the roof flashes through his mind like a short vignette, but he pushes it away and focuses his attention on the son in front of him.

“Is… everything alright?” he manages, eventually, setting the mug of hot chocolate in his hands down onto the breakfast bar.

From where Tim's gaze had been meeting the surface of swirling melted chocolate, he looks up and blinks at Bruce a few times, as though he thinks he's misheard.

Tim looks… there are too many emotions flicking across Tim's face for Bruce to identify any particularly prominent one.

“Fine?”

Why it comes out as a question, Bruce doesn't know and the lightness he thought he'd seen from Tim earlier has disappeared.

“You seem―” _distant, cold, quiet,_ “―like you're keeping to yourself. Penny for your thoughts?”

Tim eyes him up and down once, maybe reading into the statement, maybe trying to figure out where the question is coming from. Then, Bruce adds, “I just feel as though I'm getting the silent treatment from you.”

At that Tim sighs and sets his own mug down on the counter gently.

“Sorry, B,” he begins with an apology. “I thought I was being normal, but. Yeah. It… it still bothers me.”

Bruce scoots half an inch closer on his barstool, he partly wants to shake the answer out of Tim. Instead, he grips his mug tighter.

“What still bothers you?”

He is so close to getting his answer, but―

Then Tim pulls a face and looks him dead in the eye.

“Nothing, never mind,” he replies, shutting down. Bruce wants to tear out his hair in frustration. “Dick all but made us promise to leave it alone. Sorry, B. I'll… I'll try to act more normal.”

_Dick did?_

But, first―

Bruce hops of his seat and takes the dregs of his hot chocolate to the sink, emptying them out before rinsing the mug and placing it on the draining board.

“Tim,” he says gently, wandering back over. His hands come down to cup his son's face, which forces Tim to look at him. “You know that if something is bothering you, you can come to me, right?”

Tim blinks once and then gives a nod.

“Good,” Bruce says, thinking back to the promise he made with himself to check in with all his kids. “And you're not allow to 'act' in this house either. If you're hurt or sad or annoyed, you tell me, even if it's my fault, okay?”

Tim nods once again, but then, sounding partly pained adds, “It's… it's not really my story to tell, B. Dick would be… I think he would be upset if I said anything.”

Bruce releases the boy's face and both hands go down to rest on his shoulders instead.

“Okay,” he sighs finally. “I understand.”

And because it's Tim and Tim will let him, Bruce drops another kiss to the boy's crown.

“Right, come on then, bed time for you.”

The boys pouts and grumbles lightly under his breath, but it's chased up by a yawn so Bruce doesn't really think Tim means it all that much.

Bruce first leads Tim up his own bedroom, up the stairs and down the hall. The boy crawls into bed and Bruce tucks him in and brushes back his bangs with a smile. The soft expression on his own face is mirrored and returned.

“G'night, B,” Tim calls faintly from the bed once Bruce has made his way back to the door.

Bruce smiles. “Good night, Tim. I'll see you in the morning.”

Then he closes the door and starts for his own room, just a little further down the hall.

So far Bruce has one piece of evidence to look into and a person to question―Dick. Maybe the late night hot chocolate conversation between Tim and himself has repaired some of the fraying threads in their relationship, maybe not. Bruce just has to believe that putting in the effort counts for something.

* * *

Mid-morning sees Bruce with a cup of coffee in one hand and on his way to the Batcave, eyes feeling gritty, like he's got sand in them. Prying them apart after each blink is like peeling two pieces of velcro away from each other.

Noble plans of seeking out Dick and interrogating his oldest for answers were waylaid by the fact that Dick had elected to drive Cass to her dance classes this morning. Cass would have enjoyed that, he thinks, even if it did somewhat dent Bruce's plans.

The absence of one Richard Grayson takes him right back to Jason's clue and subsequently, the Batcomputer.

Unfortunately, Bruce is halfway down the hall when he is accosted,encountering what is simultaneously an immovable force and unstoppable object.

“Damian,” he greets, stifling a yawn. Maybe he should just go back to bed for an hour more or so.

“Father,” the young boy greets back stiffly.

Bruce resists the urge to sigh. Damian has been like this all week. Always stilted, always _off_ around Bruce. He's beginning to think that, whatever it is he has done, he's really stuck his foot in it. Like dog poop, the scent of his failure wafts around the manor putting pinched expressions on all his children's faces.

“Can I help you?” he asks, resisting the urge to sound impatient.

Damian looks around, despite the fact that there is quite clearly nobody else in the hall.

“Not here,” he says surreptitiously, surging forward and snatching up Bruce's free hand, hanging limply by his side. “The study.”

Bruce raises one surprised eyebrow behind the boy's back, but allows himself to be pulled along until they reach the appropriate room. Damian ushers him inside and Bruce elects to sit on one of the couches whilst the boy closes the door behind them, possibly making sure they weren't followed.

“Is there a reason for such secrecy?” he asks as Damian locks the door and finally makes his way to the same couch, plonking himself beside but turning his body to face Bruce.

“Naturally.” Damian sniffs.

Bruce takes a long sip from his coffee and resigns himself to this fate.

“Very well,” he says after a long pause in which Damian says nothing, but looks highly uncomfortable in. “What would you like to say to me?”

Damian draws in a long breath, but then puffs it all out again, muttering something about betrayal under his breath as he looks anywhere in the room but Bruce.

“Damian?” Bruce prompts more gently.

The young boy sucks in another breath, but this time it looks as though he's sufficiently steeled himself before he speaks.

“Father,” he begins, then stops.

“Yes?” Bruce asks.

Damian swallows hard. Then, anew, “Father. If I was not your biological son, would you have adopted me?”

_Oh, Christ._ Bruce nearly spills his entire mug of coffee on himself. It is too early in the morning for this. Slowly, he sets the drink on the coffee table and shuffles himself closer to his youngest son.

Damian's face is all red, but he's not looking at Bruce so…

One finger comes up to slide under the boy's chin, resulting in Damian looking up at him through his lashes. It takes Bruce's breath away with how unsure his ordinarily self-assured son looks.

_What has he done to make Damian feel so unsure about his place here?_

“Damian,” he begins compassionately, sympathy and love leaking into his voice without his full consent. It bypasses his stupid brain anyway, for which he is thankful. He thinks he might need all the help he can get with this conversation, if only so he doesn't screw it all up. “Let me start by saying this: absolutely and unquestionably. I love you just the same as all your siblings. You being my biological child will never change that.”

The young boy bites his bottom lip, nods, and then says, “But you didn't get a choice with me, not like you did with everyone else. You _chose_ them.”

Bruce shakes his head and emphatically states, “And I am blessed to have you in my life still. Though you may think I did not get a choice you should know that I would choose you. Over and over again, each and every time I would choose you Damian. I love you so much.”

Overwhelmingly, it is relief that stares back at him.

“Really?”

It nearly breaks Bruce's heart with how wobbly he sounds.

“Really.”

“Just…” he stops.

_Just what?_

“Just like… like Dick?”

Bruce smiles. Of course Damian would compare Bruce's love for him with his oldest brother. Dick was the very first of his children and it is no secret that Damian loves Dick just as much as Bruce does.

“Yes. Just like Dick.”

Damian's teeth find his bottom lip again, but this time there's something else mixed within his expression. A frown crawls its way between his eyebrows.

“Then, why…?”

“Hm? Why what?”

Damian freezes. He looks up at Bruce like a rabbit caught in headlights and then quickly slips off the couch.

“No, er, it is not of importance.”

Somehow, Damian is gone from the room before Bruce can blink back the confusion. What the heck just happened?

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs audibly before running both his hands through his hair and tugging lightly at their strands.

_Are all children this frustrating and confusing or is it just his lot?_

When he finally shuffles out of the study, alone this time, and makes it to the Batcave uninterrupted, Bruce huffs with relief and rewards himself with the last few mouthfuls of coffee awaiting him in his mug before setting it aside and pulling the Batcomputer keyboard close.

He pulls up YouTube and types in keywords for the last televised interview his children did. It's at the very top on the list of hits. The thumb nail is of his kids, all wearing fake smiles, some wearing better ones than others. The sight of it evokes all kinds of emotions he doesn't have time or brain capacity for right now, so he stuffs them all back down. Really, it's still too early to be having any kind of emotional epiphanies.

Bruce clicks into the video and sits back to watch, gradually growing more irritated with the interviewer the longer the questions go on. He's hardly paying attention by the time the interview is nearing its end, not up until the stinging question strikes out and hits him in the face like a brutal slap. It makes him sit up in his chair faster than a flying jet, zeroing his focus in on the woman and then to Dick when the camera pans over.

“ _Why is it, do you think, that you are the only one of Mister Wayne's children that he hasn't formally adopted?”_

To anyone else watching, Dick moves on smoothly, answering the question seamlessly, but to Bruce the expression is like that of somebody being disembowelled.

Dick goes utterly still, which is so odd for his always fluid, always moving son. It's like someone has stabbed him through the heart.

The video ends and Bruce sits back in his chair heavily, that one question pounding through his head rhythmically, a song on repeat: _“Why is it, do you think, that you are the only one of Mister Wayne's children that he hasn't formally adopted?”_

…

Oh no.

He's really messed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Batcave, maybe](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

In the few hours since Dick had driven Cass to her dance class and then back home again, something has changed. Dick isn't sure what, but a daunting shadow of a feeling looms over him like a truth he refuses to admit.

Bruce is acting weird.

There's been few words exchanged between them and almost no eye-contact. The one time Dick tried for a joke at around lunchtime, Bruce didn't laugh and when they were accidentally in a room together without anyone else, the man walked straight back out again.

Dick's had enough. It's already been a long couple of weeks. Too many words have hit him the wrong way and all he wants to do is take the drive back to Blüdhaven early so he can crawl into his bed and get a good nights sleep before he has to wake up for his shift on Monday morning. Alfred will be disappointed that he's not staying for dinner, but Dick can't. He can't handle Bruce right now, he can't deal with being ignored when he's not even sure what it is he's done to piss the man off this time.

With one hesitant, raised hand, he knocks on the study door and takes a deep, fortifying breath as he waits for an answer to come through from the other side.

“Come,” instructs Bruce, and Dick turns the handle to find the man hunched over his study desk, rifling through a box filled with old looking papers. So fixated on his task, he is seemingly unaware of who it is that has come knocking, but Dick's suspicions are confirmed the moment he speaks. Heart sinking like a stone, he sees Bruce's frame go rigid.

So it is him, after all.

“Hey, B…” he begins tightly, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Bruce's head whips up. “Dick.”

Dick grabs the back of his neck with one hand, just to give it something to do―he won't stand there like a chastised child, especially not when he's done nothing wrong.

Suddenly, he doesn't know what to say. Around everyone else, Dick knows exactly what words to use where. Not with Bruce, though. Dick fears that the good times between them may be slipping again. Perhaps he should back off, not come home next weekend. Maybe he should put some space between them. It would upset Damian, but the boy would understand, he knew how Bruce could be.

“I, uh―”

Dick barely manages to get the two words out before Bruce is slamming the lid down on the box in his hands. The action startles him enough to jerk back a little, dropping his hand with a frown. Clearly, whatever it is that Bruce is looking for, he doesn't want Dick to see. _And, though it shouldn't, that thought kind of stings._

“What do you need?”

The words aren't brusque or blunt, they're just abrupt. They smart like an accurate slap. The frown on his face only deepens, but he very deliberately ignores the box under Bruce's hands and meets the man's eyes. Dick feels weary, much older than he should.

“I… I just came to say that I'm heading off,” he replies, aiming not to sound small, but failing anyway. “Thought I'd make the drive back early today.”

Strangely, a look of acute surprise blooms across Bruce's face, coupled with, “You're leaving?”

“Um,” Dick begins eloquently. “Yeah…”

This time it's Bruce's turn to frown.

“I thought you were staying for dinner,” he states, even though it comes out as more of a question. “Alfred is making your favourite.”

That _was_ Dick's plan originally, but…

“Well, I was going to, but―”

Out of nowhere, the man suddenly stands, pushing back the chair at the desk. However, the movement is awkward and stiff, like somebody else is the one manoeuvring Bruce's legs. He looks about ready to cross the room and meet Dick at the threshold, but the action accidentally knocks the desk and the box sitting on top goes flying, toppling to the ground, contents spilling all over the rug.

Reflexively, Dick steps forward, going into a crouch to help Bruce clean the mess up, whilst the older man curses loudly and immediately drops to his knees.

The very first thing his fingers collect from the floor is a photo―but the one in the center frame is not who he expects.

It's him.

“When…” he begins, staring at the picture incredulously. “When did you take this?”

The child in the picture is about half the size Dick is now. He's sitting in the sitting room with Alfred, gesturing wildly whilst the old man wears a slightly amused smirk. Dick is on his knees on the floor whilst Alfred is perching upon one of the ancient armchairs, a coffee table sitting between them.

Bruce pauses from where he is agitatedly gathering up various bits of paper. Dick recognises some of them―drawings he did in school, homework he got excellent marks on. There are other things too, less familiar. There appears to be a doctors report from Leslie, and some court documents too, identifiable by the little Department of Gotham City seal in the corner.

Bruce blinks and Dick thinks his eyes might soften slightly, but then again, maybe he just imagines that.

“That was Alfred's birthday,” he answers slowly, and Dick doesn't think he misconstrues the slight hint of fondness there this time. “The second year you came to live here. You bought him a teacup with little elephants painted on it, remember?”

Dick looks back at the photo with a smile.

“Yeah, actually,” he replies, taking in the fewer lines on Alfred's face and his own youthful cheeks. “I think I might, now that you mention it.”

There's a very slight pause and then, because Dick can't help his curiosity, “What are you doing with the old box of stuff, B?”

Bruce looks down at the drawing in his hands, possibly delaying if the mumbled admission he gets is anything to go by.

“I was just… looking for something.” He huffs quietly, storing the drawing back in the box.

What could Bruce possibly need in a box filled with Dick's childhood?

“What were you looking for?” he asks, hoping this is an olive branch Bruce will take. He can't be sure _why_ Bruce is ignoring him, what it is that Dick's done to annoy the man, but maybe it will be enough to salvage their relationship for now. “Maybe I can help you find it?”

Bruce immediately looks highly uncomfortable with the offer. Dick doesn't wince externally, but it's a near thing.

The man is wound tight as a clock when an answer finally pushes past his lips.

“I was… I was looking for… there were,” Bruce stops himself, pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb whilst squeezing his eyes shut and then says, “There were adoption papers in this box. I was looking for your adoption papers.”

Dick is pretty sure he stops breathing altogether. The words seize his lungs like he's just winded himself.

“I saw your interview,” Bruce adds, like the crucial piece of a puzzle it is. It makes sense now.

The oxygen only rushes back in after an awkward, uncomfortable chuckle escapes.

“B,” he begins slowly, dropping his eyes to the floor. _He will not cry, he will not cry, he will not cry_. “B, there aren't any adoption papers.”

He hears more than sees Bruce get up, crossing through the ocean of scattered documents only to plonk himself right back down next to Dick.

“There are,” he states, like it's fact and not just Dick's own wishful thinking. “You just never signed them.”

The whisper Dick manages comes out like a gust of wind.

“What?” He blinks, head coming up and eyes meeting Bruce's own.

“It was just after I brought Jason home,” he begins, still appearing nervous and uneasy. “When I began thinking of adopting him. I was going to… you'd been staying at the manor for a week. I don't remember why, but I do remember watching you and Jason get to know each other as brothers. I'd received the paperwork for the both of you. I'd filled it all out and I was going to surprise the both of you that day. I was going to offer to adopt you and if you accepted I was planning to take you both down to the courthouse that very day.”

Dick shakes his head, hopefully dislodging the unbelievable ringing in his ears. “That's… _what?”_

But Bruce isn't done quite yet.

“Then, at breakfast, we… we had a fight. It wasn't a little one, either. We didn't speak for nearly a whole month after that. I still took Jason down to the courthouse. I still adopted him that day.”

Dick feels his throat bob, then, “You're saying―you're saying you were going to adopt me?”

Bruce nods, gaze scanning over Dick's face trepidatiously.

“Yes,” he replies. “I wanted to for a long time before that as well, but I didn't think it would be welcomed. I didn't want you thinking I was trying to replace your father.”

Dick's eyes drop away, falling to the mess on the floor, dumbfounded.

“But you,” he starts, then clears his throat and tries again. “You never told me that.”

Bruce's whole face goes up in flames and he looks downright anxious when he speaks again. “It sort of… never came up.”

A building, the weight of which has been crushing his chest, suddenly lifts leaving Dick feeling lighter than he has all day.

 _It's not because he didn't want me,_ rings through his bed as clear as a tolling bell.

Beside him, however, Bruce takes his silence and exhales a long, sorrowful sigh, before, “I am a terrible father.”

Dick blinks and looks over to see the other man smothering his face in his hands.

“No, B―” he starts gently, resting his palm on Bruce's shoulder and shifting his legs along with his body so that he's now angling himself more fully towards him. But immediately, he's interrupted.

“Don't spare me,” Bruce mumbles through his fingers. “Please. You know it's true.”

“You're _not_ ,” Dick returns more forcefully, tugging on the bulk of muscle beneath his hand, trying fruitlessly to get the man to look at him. “I know you love me. That's all that matters. Not a piece of paper.”

He thinks he hears a sniff, but when Bruce looks up his eyes are dry, so Dick must have imagined it.

“It does matter, though,” he says softly, uncurling. Dick's hand drops away just as Bruce's comes up to cup the back of his neck, pulling Dick in gently. “It matters to the world. It matters to me how they _see_ you. I don't want them thinking you're any less my family because I didn't adopt you as a child like I did your siblings. You mean more to me than just my _former ward_ , you know that, don't you?” At some point Bruce's voice drops into an overwrought whisper, and the last few words crack right down the middle, breaking Dick completely.

“Bruce…” he says with the smallest huff of laughter. “ _Dad_. I know. I won't lie to you, I was always… I guess 'afraid' is the word―I was always afraid of asking why you never adopted me, but I never doubted your love. Maybe I thought that I… I wasn't _good_ enough to be adopted, and yeah, maybe that did hurt, but I always knew you loved me in your own way.”

“Oh _, Dick,”_ Bruce sighs, sounding emotionally wrung-out and run-through at the small admission. “Dick, you were always _good enough_. It was never on you, chum.”

The old nickname has Dick squeezing his eyes shut so tight that stars start to prick in the corners.

“I want to claim you for real this time,” Bruce continues, completely unaware of how he's disassembling Dick brick by brick and building him right back up again. “I want to adopt you, Dick. I want Gotham and the world to know what you are to me, _who_ you are to me. You're my son, I want everybody to know that.”

Dick has a hard time swallowing and barely manages, “B…” before Bruce is cutting in again.

“I'm going to apply for the adult adoption papers,” he states, then turns slightly unsure and tacks on, “if you'll agree to sign them?”

He doesn't quite remember whispering the yes that rolls off his tongue, but if Bruce's face is anything to go by when he opens his eyes, he must say it.

“And I'm going to find the ones I was planning to give you when you were young,” Bruce adds. “I'm going to find them and give them to you and you can do whatever you want with them. I just want you to have them as proof. Proof that I wanted you then, just as I do now.”

Dick takes in one, shaky, shuddering breath before, “I―thank you. I didn't know how much I needed to hear that until you said it. But I don't really need proof, B. I've got you right here.”

Bruce smiles back at him, then leans in to press one lingering kiss to Dick's forehead, brushing back the bangs with one hand as he goes.

“And you'll always have me,” he says as he pulls away. “Because I love you, and I always have and I always will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this work! Also, if you want to make a new friend, come chat with me at [Tumblr](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/).


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